


To Be King

by Lykegenia



Series: Rosslyn Cousland [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dragon Age Quest: The Landsmeet, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hardened Alistair (Dragon Age), Hurt/Comfort, King Alistair, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 16:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12656946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: After the events at Fort Drakon, there's a decision to be made about the throne.Because there is no way I imagine a romanced Alistair not talking about this massive elephant in the room with his lady love.





	To Be King

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Alistair Appreciation Week on Tumblr

Finally, Wynne stepped out into the corridor, a letter clumsily sealed in blue wax clutched in her hands. She shut the door behind her. Alistair, who for the past half an hour has been wearing a groove in the floorboards, looked up expectantly.

“Can I see her?” he asked.

Wynne fixed him with her best matronly glare. “She’s still recovering, Alistair. She needs rest.”

“I wasn’t thinking – I wasn’t going to –” he spluttered, colouring at the implication. His shoulders slumped, voice cracking. “I just… I have to know she’s alright.”

The teasing lilt of the old mage’s smile softened as she moved towards him, reaching to lay a reassuring hand on his arm.

“She will be,” she said. “She was lucky we found her when we did, and she is lucky she’s strong, and a Grey Warden to boot. Although,” she mused, “maybe it would be best if you stayed with her for a little while. If anyone can keep her from doing something reckless, it’s you.”

Alistair snorted. His steadying influence hadn’t been worth much when she decided to storm Howe’s estate without either him or Cuno at her side. He should have known what would happen when she exchanged her own blade for the heirloom sword she had carried with her since the blazing ruin of Castle Cousland. And yet he had let her go. And he had nearly lost her.

“She’ll be happy to see you,” Wynne said, to bring him out of his reverie.

He glanced at the door. When he turned back to thank Wynne for her help, she was already halfway down the hallway, and the words faded on his tongue. Instead, he let his held breath out in a sigh and straightened his shoulders, nervous for a reason that slipped his understanding. When he’d found her in the dungeon of Fort Drakon, she had looked so small, pressed as tightly as possible against the dank stone wall, sheened with feverish sweat and pale as a fish’s belly. For a moment, seeing the deep wound in her side that seeped blood into her improvised bandage, he had feared the worst. But her eyes had blazed, and she had staggered up to follow and fight her way out of the nightmare, and had only collapsed again three streets away from the front gate, infection and blood loss having finally spent the last of her Warden strength.

The metal of the door handle felt cool under his fingers, the wood sharp against his knuckles as he knocked.

“Come in.”

Rosslyn leaned against the frame of the large bay window that overlooked the arl’s kitchen garden. The late afternoon sun painted her face with golden light, concealing the pallor that still clung to her skin, though it did little to hide the bruise-dark circles under her eyes. She smiled when she saw it was him come to see her, a tired thing that vanished in a sigh as she turned back to watch the servants gather ingredients for the evening meal.

“You should be in bed,” he said.

It earned him a smirk. “I’m fine. I have one of the best healers in Thedas tending to me, after all.”

“Are you cold?” he asked. “Can I get you anything?”

“Alistair, there’s no need to fuss,” she replied easily. “I’m _fine_.”

He didn’t miss the way her teeth gritted as she shifted her weight between her feet. He picked up a blanket from the end of the bed and cautiously made his way over to her side.

“I want to fuss,” he said. “When everyone came back from Howe’s estate and you weren’t with them – when I heard they’d taken you to – to that _place_ , and I couldn’t do anything to stop them –”

Rosslyn quieted him with a brush of fingertips across his cheek. “You came charging in to rescue me like the hero in an old story.” She smiled. “I won’t forget it.”

“Let me fuss,” he insisted, closing the last of the space between them.

At Rosslyn’s nod, he draped the blanket over her shoulders, gently tucking it against the back of her neck and under her arms to make sure every draught was chased away. The movement brought him close enough to smell a hint of elfroot and fresh linen, and on her breath the homeliness of the chicken broth the cook had made to help her recover. She leaned into him, nudging into the crook of his neck, and when he was finished arranging the blanket it felt good to add the extra layer of his arms, though he was careful to avoid putting pressure on her injury.

“Satisfied?” she asked, in a voice that was a hum against his skin.

“Almost.”

He pecked her on the forehead and then, before she could react, he bent his legs and scooped his arm under her knees. She yelped and clung to his shirt, eyes so wide with shock he had to stifle a grin.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“You’re lucky I’m injured, and that nobody was here to see that,” she shot back, pouting.

He chuckled. “Of course. Maker forbid anyone discover that even the indomitable Rosslyn Cousland can be caught unawares. Where to, my lady – bed, or divan?”

“Divan, please,” she answered with consideration. “I’m sick of being in bed.”

 “Oh how I despair to hear that, my love.” The grin he aimed at her made her toes curl. “Although, Wynne did give me a Look as she was leaving, and it’s always better not to incur her wrath.”

“Is earning her wrath not worth what you might get in return?” she asked sweetly.

“Stop it, you. You’re meant to be recovering.” Carefully, he settled them both into the plush cushions of the divan, close enough to the fire that there was little need for the blanket, still snug around her shoulders. “How’s this?”

“Good,” she decided. Gingerly, she snuggled closer. “You’re very warm.”

“Ha! I knew I had my uses – I’m so glad I can add ‘human brazier’ to the list.”

“Mmm…”

They fell quiet. Alistair’s hand traced light circles on Rosslyn’s back. She curled across his lap, while her fingers brushed patterns over his knuckles and his chin rested on her hair. _Safe. Alive_. The sounds of the market drifted up to them, birdsong and barking dogs and a dwarven merchant toting the value of his goods. But the crackle of the fire was louder, their shared heartbeats more beguiling, and before long they dozed against each other, content to have this brief peace at the eye of the storm.

Alistair’s voice scratched the silence when he spoke again. “On the subject of looks, I’m guessing someone told Anora I was planning to steal her throne. She has a _nasty_ glare.”

Rosslyn sighed. “She came to see me earlier, before Wynne arrived.”

“Oh?” Beneath her fingers, his tightened into a fist. “What did she want?”

“She wants me to support her in the Landsmeet.”

The silence in the room chilled like one of Morrigan’s ice spells.

“What did you say to her?” he asked eventually.

“That a decision affecting the future of a whole country can’t be made lightly, especially when distracted by the pain of a recent injury gained in the service of others.”

“That’s my girl.” His grin faltered. “What _will_ you say to her?”

She buried closer into his neck, feeling for the comfort of a steady pulse. “You won’t like it.”

Whether the leaden tone in her voice was the result of sorrow or mere fatigue was difficult to tell, but either way Alistair found it intolerable. Shifting slightly so she was better cushioned against his chest, he brushed a loose lock of hair away from her face, following the line of her cheekbone so he could lift her chin with the tender edge of his thumb.

“Oh, you never know, I’m full of surprises,” he said, but Rosslyn’s face was still grey as a snow-cloud, the muscles around her eyes tight with pain, and his airy tone was swallowed by a tight, choking rage. “She left you for dead. You rescued her from that place and she handed you over and used the distraction to save herself, just like her father did to Cailan, and now she’s asking for _your_ help? I wouldn’t be surprised if she planned the whole thing from the beginning.”

“It seems she wants to get out from under Loghain’s thumb,” Rosslyn mumbled.

“But he’s the only reason she’s still in power in the first place. His army has kept her on the throne!”

She traced her finger along the seam of his shirt and sighed. “Things have changed since Cailan’s death. The tide is turning against Loghain because before, the nobility only had his word for what happened. Now we appear, and stories of the Blight continue to spread, and the tales paint Cailan as a hero martyred for his country rather than a fool who wanted to go adventuring. Anora’s shrewd enough to know this, and to know her best chance to stay in power is to have us fight her corner.”

“That’s all she wants, isn’t it,” he replied, disgusted. “To sit on her throne and order people about. Never mind about the elves, or the commoners, or anyone who gets in her way. People are just tools to her, aren’t they?”

Rosslyn pulled back again to look at him, searching his face with eyes like the winter sea on a still day. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?” she breathed.

He swallowed. “Yes. It’s not just what she let happen to you, it’s all of it. The alienage – the elves weren’t surprised by what happened to them. They were hurt, and angry, but not surprised. If Anora becomes queen none of that will change, and monsters like Vaughan and Howe will be allowed to do whatever they want, as long as they don’t cause a fuss among the nobility. What’s the point of saving Ferelden from the Blight if things don’t get better?” he demanded, aware his voice had risen, but not caring at all.

“And what’s the alternative?” Rosslyn asked, in a voice that told him she already knew the answer. She waited for him, patient, her hands wrapped around his as he struggled to put in order all the expectations of lineage that he had been wrestling with since he was old enough to understand them, thoughts he had never voiced aloud, even to the woman who had held his heart almost since their first meeting.

“When I was little, I used to dream of being a prince,” he told her now. “Mostly when I was scrubbing pots in the scullery, because if I was a prince, I wouldn’t have to do it anymore. Then when it never brought me anything buy misery, I resented it. The Wardens were different – we were all equal, so it didn’t matter who I was, so long as I could fight. And then…” He sighed. “After all this, all the suffering we’ve seen, knowing I could help? I… It wouldn’t be right.  You taught me – _mmph_!”

Her fingers slid along his jaw as she kissed him, chapped lips slanted against his, pressing so close her nose dipped against his cheek, and when she broke the embrace, she barely pulled away at all.

“I love you,” she said, and he could feel the shape of the words against his mouth.

He chuckled. “I love you, too. So what do we do now? Maric might have been my father but that doesn’t mean the Landsmeet will listen to me over Anora. I’m still a commoner.”

“You do have one thing she doesn’t.”

“Hm?”

“Me.” She kissed him again, briefly. “I’m a Cousland. What happened to my family happened so that Loghain wouldn’t have anyone to rival his schemes, but now…” Her voice trailed into a hard edge, her mind drawn back to the dungeon where her quest for vengeance had finally quenched itself in blood. She had yet to speak about it to anyone, so all he could do was hold her closer.

“Highever is mine now. Its armies, or what remains of them, are mine. I’ve sent for them to fulfil the pledge my father made to help stop the Blight – that’s what’s in the letter Wynne had when she left. And aside from that,” she added, “my family were well-liked. The Landsmeet will want justice for them.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, imagining what it might cost to stand in front of strangers and wield such personal loss as a weapon.

“I think I do,” she answered. “To lay them to rest. I don’t want them to have died for nothing.” Once more, she reached up and cradled his chin with her fingers, brushing the pad of her thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Are you sure this is what you want? To be king?”

He kissed it. “Will you be with me?”

A nod.

“Then I know I can do this. I want to.”

He smiled as he leaned down, the first brush of his lips undemanding, until she drew him deeper with a brief flicker of her tongue. The hand splayed across her back inched up to weave knots into the silk of her hair, in just the way that made her cant her head back to grant him a better angle. Jolts of heat travelled the length of his spine, shivering out to the tips of his fingers.

“Have I told you I’m really, really glad you’re not dead?” he checked, when he finally mustered the willpower to break away.

She rested her forehead against his. “You have… but I could stand to hear it again. Or,” she added, trailing her fingertips up his arm, “you could show me, if you like.”

“Rosslyn –”

“It’s alright – I’m tougher than I look.”

He couldn’t help laughing at that. “Dear lady, I’ve seen you take down an ogre without breaking a sweat. I _know_ how tough you are.” Temptation sided with the play of her hands over his skin and the warmth blooming in his belly, crumbling away his resolve. “You’re sure?”

She pushed closer into his lap, capturing his lips again. “The worse part of that place was thinking I would never see you again,” she breathed. “That I’d never get to touch you, or hear you say my name. I want the shadows _gone_.”

“If it hurts…”

“We can stop,” she agreed. “But I want you. Please.”

The crack in her voice undid him. He recognised it for the same desperation that had driven him half to madness watching her leave, then spurred him on through the bowels of Fort Drakon to bring her home. Suddenly it wasn’t enough just to sit with her, passing the day and talking about matters of state that should never have concerned him; he needed her skin under his tongue, needed to burn the chills from her body and wrap her tightly in the promise of never letting it happen again.

“Then your desire is my command, my love,” he purred, scooping her up again. This time she made no protest about the indignity of being carried, only worked her hands at the laces of his shirt, laying the collar aside to reach the tendons of his neck.

He lay her on the bed and slipped under the covers beside her, and they didn’t emerge for hours.


End file.
